tom, my friendasked the nightif it felt calmerwithout the lightor if it keptthe pavementswet on purpose.It said:blame the lingeringof florescent spots,projections of aworld thats not,and left his headas if his sightdreamt up the darkness.Suppose the thing,that he dreadwas the compromisebetween two bedsdesigned for rolling over,what ghastly butter-powder spreadto carve his facea little bolder.so is the driven busthat weeps, with greaturgency at tom’s ricochetlike a kingfisher skimmingstreets and shouldersbut he was at oncenail-thin and squeezednot nearly deador older; and ifyou were near, youcould catchin glimpses thatstaggered speech,violet lines and the smolderdown his neck, butnot his throat as itapproached his shoulder.resign to disbeliefand praise and fear--as Tom, so quicklyknew no heaven here